It's Kind of a Funny Story
by ICanReadYouLikeABook
Summary: Tonight, she is going to go home and end her life. It’s official. It’s irrevocable. Then she meets a certain orange-haired stranger at a coffee shop, and now everything has changed. Suddenly, problems aren't really worth dying over. Ichigo x Rukia AU


**Title:** It's Kind of a Funny Story

**Summary:** Tonight, she is going to go home and end it all. It's official. It's irrevocable. But then she meets a certain orange-haired stranger at a coffee shop, and now everything's changed. Is it possible that someone can save your life without even knowing it? [Ichigo x Rukia]

* * *

**(RPOV)**

My mind is made up, and it feels good because there's not a struggle anymore.

Making a decision like this is a funny thing. It makes you feel certain after months – _years_ – of a life spiraling out of control. In some odd, unexplainable way, your feet are finally planted on the ground and life doesn't feel so bad anymore. Perhaps it's because you're gonna wake up tomorrow morning and…not wake up? I don't know. I can't explain these things.

The weather is nice today, which is odd, since it's been grey and overcast for the past three weeks. It's a little ironic that I plan on doing it today, out of all days. Makes me vacillate a little. But only just a little. My mind is made up, remember? I don't change my mind very often. If I did, I would still be in bed, under the covers, hiding from this warm sunlight that's now illuminating everything around me.

It's not a bad way to leave everything behind, eh? They say your last memory should be a good one. Maybe that explains why I'm walking around the park without a stroller or a dog or a purpose, for that matter. That's okay, because I'm here to say goodbye to everything.

I glance around, watching everything bathe in the glow of the twelve o'clock sunlight. It's nice, really. A good memory to hold on to. I see fountains and joggers and pets and people who probably have something to do today, unlike me. Someone whizzes right past me – I should probably get off this path – and I feel something hard hit my left foot. It's a wallet. On the inside, there's a picture of a guy, fifteen or sixteen, smiling at the camera with an amused half-grin.

'_Kurosaki, Ichigo. 5' 9", 134 lbs, ect, ect, ect."_

And the best part? He had orange hair. Maybe it was just a really faded picture or a crappy one that reacted oddly in the sunlight. Either way, this guy shouldn't be hard to find- tall, skinny, and incredibly bright. My eyes catch a figure sprinting away a couple meters ahead, and I groan.

I could place it back on the ground and some good Samaritan could find it and return it to him easily. Or, some sadistic pedophile could pick it up and this Ichigo guy's life is ruined forever. I could turn the other way on the situation.

And then I find my short legs stretched out in front of me, and I am running. Really running. The joggers I pass by look at me as if I've lost my mind (which I have, so it doesn't really matter what the hell they think) as I chase after some guy that resembled a carrot the size of a doorframe. And this guy is _not _slow. I kid you not. His long legs really are good for something.

He darts out of the park entrance and slows to a walk, which is a total relief. Then, he turns the corner and disappears into the Karakura shopping district, and I wonder what the point is in chasing down things that constantly slip through my fingers.

I'm lucky because as soon as I round the same corner, I see him dart into a coffee shop I used to go to before shit happened. I can finally stop sprinting like an idiot, and I pause outside the entrance to catch my breath. I wonder how I look – sweaty and disheveled, perhaps. Not that it matters, because the time for good impressions has passed, but I don't want to come off as a creep either when I return his wallet. He's my age; maybe he'd recognize me or something.

I don't understand myself. It's not like it _matters_. After all this time, am I really still trying to tie myself back to this world? I'm returning a wallet, not meeting up for a date. When I decide that I'm decent enough and my heart has returned to its normal pace, I head inside. The air conditioning feels good on my hot skin as it hits me.

And then I see him. And he's even more gorgeous than in the picture.

I stand there for awhile, unsure of what to do. Is my brain still connected to my spinal cord, or have I truly lost function of my leg muscles? I should stop staring at his bright orange hair – I had been right – and his distinct, scowling features that would look great if he just cracked a smile. I'm a hypocrite for that, I know, since I haven't smiled over anything in a long time, but I'm serious. Even sitting down, I can tell that he's tall. I should stop staring and do something now before he notices how creepy I'm being.

Robotically, my legs move towards his table, and he doesn't even look up from the book he's reading. I should say something. I should calmly introduce myself and explain the situation-

"Uh, here."

Instead, I'm shoving the leather wallet at his face like I'm trying to push drugs. He looks up in surprise as if he's noticing everything around him for the very first time. He's a pretty deep person, I can tell. I'm good at telling these things about people.

"Is this…my wallet?" His voice is deep and puzzled, but I don't really think he's freaked out yet.

All I can do is nod. Have I mentioned how lame my social skills have become? I used to pretty good at associating with people and things like that, but then stuff happened and choked the words right out of me.

"Well, uhmmm…"

"You dropped it," I quickly explain. "I didn't steal it or anything, because that'd be wrong and I would like, _never_ ever do that."

I'm not really sure why I'm babbling on like this. I fell as if there's some kind of pressure radiating from him like an aura that's practically forcing me to talk. That's the weird thing – it's not _easier _to talk around him, but it's more fluid. I'm not stopping in the middle of my thoughts like I usually do. I don't know why.

"Gee, thanks," he rubs the back of his neck with one hand and takes the wallet with another. "really appreciate that. It must've sucked to try and flag me down like that."

"Yeah, well…you know."

No, he probably doesn't. So much for coherent communication. Should I just…lave or something? Turn around and walk out? Or maybe that'd be rude. But saying by would be a little too friendly, maybe.

"Okay, well," I say sheepishly, giving him a half-hearted grin that probably looked more like a grimace. "See ya."

"Wait," he calls to me, and I turn back and look at him. "Can I get you something to drink? It's the least I can do, considering you could've been seventeen yen richer today."

Isn't that the kind of thing twenty five year-olds do at night clubs and bars? And what purpose do I have with one more yen? It's not like it'll make a difference after tonight. But he doesn't know that. He's just trying to be nice.

"I, uh…no, it's okay. I'm fine."

My mouth is dry and my muscles feel a little odd, but it's nothing I can't handle. He cocks his head to the side with an expression I can't read. It's a mix between curiosity, disappointment and something else- interest, perhaps? I can't tell. But it's probably not interest.

"Really, I insist. Just one and I'll leave you alone," he smiles. "I can tell you're a good person who could use something iced."

He has it all wrong. Good people don't plot their deaths set for nine hours from now. Sick people get ready to commit suicide. But what the hell? It wouldn't hurt, since it'll all be over in a little while. As long as he was paying. I begrudgingly sit down in the booth seat across from him and attempted another one of those grin/smile/grimace things I'm starting to get pretty good at. He folds the corner of his page and sets the book down over by the salt and pepper shakers. It's a complicated medical journal about chemical imbalances linked to depression, and I resist the urge to smirk.

The waiter comes over and I order a Thai iced tea. He looks at me curiously before sipping something in a mug that I guess is coffee. It's kind of odd to drink that in the middle of the day on a hot April afternoon, but I guess we all have our preferences. No criticism here.

"I never got your name."

"Rukia. Rukia Kuchiki. You're Ichigo Kurosaki, right?"

He nods.

"Your dad doesn't happen to own the Kurosaki clinic, does he?"

Ichigo grimaces, and I can kind of understand why. Isshin Kurosaki isn't a psychopath or anything, but he sure is odd. I went there for a flu shot last winter and caught him talking to a poster of a woman on the wall and muttering something about "our idiot son." Perhaps this is the idiot son he was talking about, although he seems pretty refined to me.

"_Yeah,_" he draws it out real slow, like it's hard for him to admit, and the waiter comes back with my order.

I take a long sip and realize I'm thirstier than I thought. I wonder how long this can stay down before it comes back up again. Edible stuff has a nasty habit of doing that with me. I'm not sure why; people constantly comment on my weight but I just really can't help it. You tend to get skinnier when you can't ever hold anything in, you know? I ease the liquid down, taking slow sips at a time, and so far so good. For now. Things have a tendency to change. There's an odd kind of silence bordering on awkward as we sip and avoid eye contact. His eyes are light brown. I'm just now noticing this as I sneak a glance at him when he looks away.

"So you go to Karakura High?" I ask idly, though I don't really care. If he went to the same school as mine, I probably would've recognized him by now. Then again, I've been lost for awhile. Overlooking things tends to happen a lot.

"No. I'm in private school."

"Ahh," I say knowingly, trying to repress a smile as I sip my Thai tea.

So he's one of _those _types- rich, handsome, brilliant. I should've known by the book he was reading and the way he so readily offered to pay for my drink. Not that that's _bad _or anything – _someone's _got to be successful – but he's not the kind of person I'd ever be seen hanging out with. That leads to a good question- who _do _I hang out with? What does 'hanging out' even mean anymore?

His eyebrows furrow. "What?"

"Nothing, nothing." I sip some more.

"No really. What's wrong with private school?"

"Nothing! I didn't say anything."

"You're making assumptions," he motions at me with a half-amused, half-annoyed expression. "I can tell."

"What are you into, like, psychology?"

"No. But I'm good at reading people."

So maybe we have a small something in common here. That isn't a bad thing, perhaps, although I shouldn't be attaching myself to this total stranger like this. I lean back against the cushion of the booth seat and look at him.

"Really? Okay then. Read me."

I wonder if he can tell what I'm planning on doing tonight. Do pre-suicide cases have spiritual signs hovering above their heads with a countdown clock? Can he see it? That'd be funny, in a suck, not-really-that-funny kind of way. A small smile plays at his lips as he runs his eyes over my face, and I feel a little exposed. What did he see- a messed up, insane girl that wanted out, or just what's on the surface?

"You're a good person," he points out after a moment. "That, I can tell right off the bat. You're the internal-suffering type who doesn't admit there's anything wrong." He sets his elbows against the table edge and leans a little closer. "You don't let people in much, do you?"

I don't say anything for awhile. "You're good."

"I know. You're really interesting – what are you hiding, Rukia Kuchiki?"

He has no idea. I look down and stir my tea to avoid eye contact.

"Geez, I'm sorry. That was probably weird," he backtracked. "I don't mean to pry or anything. You just seem like there' something wrong."

"Really?"

"Wait, not like that! I just think you have some issues!"

"_Oh_." I'm not really sure why I'm getting upset. Is it because he's assuming all these things, or is it because he's right? I've never had someone know me so quickly before. I am scared.

"I-no! Agh, that came out wrong."

I avoid his eyes and proceed to scoot out of the booth. "I…I should go."

"No, wait!" He's standing up now and his hand is around my wrist.

I feeze, not really believing this. His touch isn't offensive or anything like that. It's just…kind. Needy. It's the first time we've made contact, and his fingertips are warm and unfamiliar against my skin. Pulling away would be rude, and I'm not sure if I even want to. It's that odd aura of his, again- making me open up and feel things I haven't felt in a really long time.

" I'm really sorry. Don't go. If I've offended you in any way…"

"Don't worry about it, Ichigo." His name is like a sugar cube melting on the tip of my tongue.

He smiles at me, relieved, and pulls me back to him. The next thing I know, I'm sitting right next to him on the same side of the booth, sharing precious space that I usually don't let anyone else in. He could be a teenage murderer for all I know, yet I feel as if I've known him a good twenty years. I'm not really sure how this is possible. What happened to those walls I've so craftily constructed, my mind that I've carefully protected? Ten minutes, and a complete (-ish) stranger already has them crumbling.

He is dangerous, but in a good kind of way. I think.

"Tell you what," he says after letting go of my wrist/hand/arm, "we can skip all the personal stuff and psychological analysis, 'kay?"

I find myself smiling, and it feels good. I like this guy. He does strange things to me.

"Deal."

We talk for awhile about everything and nothing in particular. School, jobs, summer, life- it's all fair game. And not once does he comment about my weight or pry into my _personal_ personal life. He's comforting, like home.

"I gotta know- " he tells me. "Any psycho boyfriends I need to know about in case they see us through the window?"

I smirk. "Most definitely not."

He had to be kidding. When was the last time I had a boyfriend- never? What did a kiss feel like? Perhaps he's just trying ot figure out whether I'm single or not- which is odd, because most guys don't usually give me a second glance after they figure out how messed up I am. Then again, he's not like most guys. I know he's not. Sure, I've only known him for twenty minutes, but I can tell that he's not. He nods.

"And you? Any boyfriends I need to know about?"

He laughs at my weak attempt at humor and glances at me.

"Nope. Single."

It's not like it matters. I mean, I'm not really sure why I'm doing this in the first place- setting myself up for failure. I'll never see him again, and I most definitely am not interested like that. I mean, that would be completely out of character. Then again, isn't everything about this out of character? Rukia Kuchiki doesn't hang out in coffee shops with random strangers. Random strangers don't pay attention to Rukia Kuchiki. My head is starting to spin a little. I just nod and not say anything else.

He stares at me while he sips at his coffee, and there are butterflies in my stomach. Why is that so? What am I accomplishing here? Making anew friend and tying myself to him is not the best thing to do before ending your life. It messes you up, makes you think twice. Then there's Ichigo Kurosaki….it's only been thirty minutes now, but I'm kind of dreading having to cut this tie between us.

This thing hurts like hell all of a sudden.

"Hey, what does that stuff taste like?"

"Huh? Oh, _here._" I practically shove the ting at his chest. He looks at me oddly but smiles. With just a little hesitation, he takes a sip, looks at something in the distance, and smiles. All of a sudden, I'm laughing.

"What?"

I look away. "Nothing. It's just…your dad runs a clinic, right? Weren't you raised not to share drinks with a stranger?"

"You're not a stranger, Rukia," he says gently, and his face is suddenly closer than I remember.

I feel the tea coming up again, and my stomach lurches. A familiar, hot cloak of nausea surrounds me, and I break away for the bathroom before it's too late. Darting into the nearest stall, my stomach empties itself and a familiar cold sweat washes over me. My eyelashes feel wet for some reason, and then I realize there are tears coming out of my eyes. I feel ashamed. Low. Pathetic. There's a great guy out there, not twenty feet away, and I'm on my knees in a public restroom, retching up tea he offered to pay for. I wanted to be normal so badly. I wanted to be good for a change. And I can't even hold down a drink.

How pathetic. He shouldn't be sharing company with someone like me.

I flush, rinse my mouth until the bitter, acidic taste is completely gone, and stare at myself in the mirror for a little bit. I hate what I see staring back at me, and the willpower to face Ichigo is lost. Maybe he's already left. I stick my head out of the door, and he glances back to check if I've come out yet. Our eyes meet for a split second before I look away. It's too late. He's seen me. Now I have to go back, right? Stiffly, my legs move back to our booth, _his _booth, and I can't seem to make eye contact.

"You okay?" He sounds genuinely concerned about me. It makes me feel even worse about myself.

"I uh, I think I should go. But I can pay for the drink-"

"No, no." He jumps up and is towering over me. "You can't go. I mean, you _can _go, but…I don't want you to. I know I'm not the best company, but we can try again."

I just stare at him. I just sprinted to the restroom and puked up three yen worth of tea – he knows this, too – and he wants me to stay? There are no words for this.

He laughs, but it's short and terse. "Now you know how _awesome _I am with the opposite sex."

"Uh, that was a joke," he clarifies when I don't say anything.

I probably look like I'm about to cry. I mean, I'm not the crying type, but lately, I look as if I'm ready to break down in tears. Constantly.

"I'm sorry, but…" And then it all comes out. "I'm not the kind of person you want to associate with. Really. I change people. And I don't want you to think I'm totally sane and I've got my life figured out, because I don't and I'm not, unlike someone like _you_, who's smart, wealthy, gorgeous, nice-"

"Wait," he interrupts me, smiling, and I'm glad that he did. "Did you say gorgeous?"

Why yes, yes I did. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go drown myself in your coffee mug.

"That's new." He slides back into the booth and looks up at me. There's a brief pause before he slightly nods his head and gives me a half-grin. "So you're messed up, eh? Insane? Wanna tell me about it?"

My heart is thudding and I slide back in next to him. There's this odd feeling in my chest now that I haven't felt in a pretty long time. I think it's called hope. Or maybe it's acceptance.

"It's kind of a funny story," I say.

"I'm a good listener."

Suddenly, I'm telling this guy, this possible teenage murderer, everything. Not everything, everything – I left out a couple of parts – but I explained how I can't hold down anything anymore. I tell him about my dead parents and crappy apartment, my good job that was taken from me, and the The Party and The Alcohol, and The Stuff that I've kept under my bed for way too long. He can judge me, tell me I'm a freak, and walk out right now. I really don't care. Because it feels so _good _to get this shit off my chest and into someone's mind that I think understands me better than any counselor or therapist ever could. I don't tell him my plan tonight, though. It sounds embarrassing and funny now, even to me.

He takes it in for a moment, and we don't speak.

"You're right. You really are insane."

He's smiling, and his words are light, so I don't take any offense. I can tell he understands me. I can tell that his mind is only making observations, not judgments or conclusions.

"Can I ask you for a favor?" he says quietly after he's absorbed everything in.

I nod. It's the least I can do.

"Would you let me…kiss you? If I asked?"

The world stops. The clock moves backwards. Gravity's shut off. And my heart is racing and pounding in my ears like the Karakura High marching band. What do I say? What do I do? Is he being serious here? Well, hell, there's really nothing else to say but-

"Yeah. I think so."

The corners of his mouth turn up a little and I find myself doing the same. I don't care anymore. I don't care about severing ties or ending friendships in my last moments. Because he seems like he's worth the fight. And suddenly, there's just not enough time left in this day. I don't want it to end if it means seeing him again. I don't want _me _to end.

He blinks slowly and turns his torso to face me. "Rukia Kuchiki? May I kiss you?"

Gravity turns back on. The world is back in rotation. The minute had is finally ticking clockwise again. And I say yes, because I might as well. He leans forward, brushes a piece of hair away from my cheek, and presses his lips to mine very carefully. It's like tasting coffee and Thai tea all over again, only I actually want more and I won't be puking it up this time. This makes me smile against his lips.

It's my first kiss, on a blue booth with a not-so-stranger in an old, vintage coffee shop. I can't ask for anything better.

"What are you thinking?" he whispers when it's over, although his hand is still on my neck and my forehead is leaning against his. What am I supposed to say? 'I don't want to die anymore'?

"Why…why is your hair orange?"

He laughs, and I'm laughing with him, and he gives me one more chaste kiss on my lips.

"My mother had orange hair. It's weird, I know."

"No, I like it."

"Really?"

I nod, and he smiles again. That seems to be happening a lot lately- making him smile. It's nice to know I'm not that worthless after all.

"I have to tell you something," he says quietly, and he removes his hand in order to get a better look at my face.

"Okay."

He looks away. "I hope you won't think less of me when I say this. It just that, tonight…I was gonna kill myself. It was official. Irrevocable. I couldn't take it anymore."

I've stopped breathing.

"But Rukia Kuchiki…I think you've saved my life. I don't think I can go through with it anymore, if it means seeing you again."

This is wrong. He has it all wrong. Isn't it _me _whose life is saved, and isn't it _him_ who's saved my life? Things like this don't happen. Pre-suicide cases don't save people's lives. My mouth is dry and my heart is slowly beating.

"You wanna tell me about it?"

He looks up and he has on the most brilliant smile I've ever seen. His eyes, brown and warm, are glowing with a sense of hope, a sense of acceptance. I know exactly how it feels. It's like being born again. One minute, you're dying, and the next…you're not.

He tilts his head and takes a sip of my Thai iced tea. "It's kind of a funny story."

And that's okay with me. I've got a lot of time to listen.

* * *

**A/N: **Inspired by It's Kind of a Funny Story, the novel, by some author I can't really think of right now. It's not about suicide. It's about recovery, you know. Thus, this was born. What can I say- all they have at Barnes and Noble is teen suicide and Twilight. Please leave me a review, you awesome people who never cease to amaze me with your feedback. You have no idea how appreciated it is. I love you guys!


End file.
